More Than Another Experiment
by GeniaTheParadox
Summary: My first bash at Johnlock smut. A painfully bored Sherlock decides on an experiment in basic human interaction. Or, you know, a conversation with John. I suck at summaries.


My very first ever Johnlock fic... you have no idea how proud I am of myself, since I very rarely ever write anything that isn't Glee. But I've just gotten into the whole BBC Sherlock fandom and writing some smut about the ship that ships itself seemed like the perfect way to properly get into this lovely new world. And it turned out about two thousand words longer than I originally intended, so hooray.

I'll be honest, I've only seen series one and the last episode of series two. I know, awkward. But I've read a lot of fanfiction and follow a lot of blogs, and as a way of making up for any gaps in my knowledge I've not really set this fic during any actual episode. So yeah, be gentle with me, Sherlock fandom. I'm new here.

Reviews would be lovely.

And I do not own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson or 221B Baker Street or anything. I do own Benedict Cumberbatch, but only in my mind.

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**More Than Another Experiment **

Sherlock was bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, _bored. _He'd been texting Lestrade every ten minutes precisely but there were no new cases to solve. Well, no cases that were in any way interesting. Fraud, missing valuables, robberies – ugh, _boring_. Why couldn't there be a nice serial killer or something? Something _fun_? Why did London have to insist on being so calm and peaceful and _boring_ today? The sun was shining, the birds were singing... it was ghastly.

He'd be shooting the walls by now if John hadn't confiscated his gun. Sherlock had already deduced where it was, of course, but he'd decided to let John feel as if he had some authority for a change. Sherlock didn't feel like playing his violin, or doing any experiments with the assortment of body parts he'd stored in the kitchen, even though he was halfway through one that tested the effects of various acids on the fingerprints of the severed fingers he'd been keeping safe in an empty margarine tub. He was trapped in his own head, unable to think of a single thing to do that didn't immediately seem pointless and boring. And why wasn't John here?

He was about six seconds away from stabbing himself in the leg out of sheer crippling ennui when John finally came home, a shopping bag in each hand. Sherlock was slumped down on the sofa, his hands a steeple under his chin, thinking so desperately for something to do that he barely heard John's greeting.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," John grumbled, rolling his eyes at his flatmate. "And I don't need any help putting the shopping away, but it was really nice of you to offer."

Sherlock listened to John putting things away in the kitchen, saying things like "You've had nothing but tea for about three days, I'm making you some pasta whether you like it or not," and "For God's sake, Sherlock, why is there a _foot_ in the breadbin?" when he finally thought of a way to pass the time now that he wasn't alone. An experiment in basic human interface. Or 'a conversation', to put it into layman's terms. Perhaps talking to someone would stop the seconds from dragging by so slowly.

"John."

"Do you have to keep all these bottles of stomach acid right next to the milk?"

"John."

"You've really got to learn to clean up after yourself, Sherlock. I'm sick of finding blood samples and eyeballs everywhere. And what's your riding crop doing in the sink?"

"John!"

John finally came out of the kitchen with a sigh. It was a sigh that only Sherlock seemed to bring out of him, that oh-for-fuck-sake-why-do-I-put-up-with-this-man kind of sigh that was somewhere between exhausted and slightly amused.

"What?"

"I'm bored," said Sherlock, staring at the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes. "And...?"

"_And_," Sherlock said, with a sideways look of distain at his flatmate. "I'm bored, John! Today has been the single most boring, uneventful, pointless day in existence. No one's even been murdered today. I've done _nothing_."

"And what do you want me to do about it?" said John, shaking his head as he sat in his armchair.

Sherlock sat up, glaring. "Entertain me!"

John scoffed, picking up his newspaper. "I thought Lestrade gave you that pile of cold cases to look through for just such an emergency?"

"Oh, those were dull," Sherlock said, waving John's words away. "No challenge at all. Entertain me, John!"

"And how do you suppose I do that?" said John, not looking up from his paper. "I'm your flatmate, not your performing monkey."

Sherlock chose not to answer, and instead searched his mind palace for the best course of action in which to continue with his little experiment in conversation. He was sort of making it up as he went along and had no real desired outcome other than 'to not be bored senseless anymore'. But at least it was something less destructive to do that shooting the walls or stabbing himself in the leg.

"How do you people keep yourselves amused during the day, John?" he finally asked. An open question. Good start.

"By 'you people' I'm assuming you mean all us regular human beings," said John, barely suppressing a smirk. "As opposed to the Consulting Detectives and high-functioning sociopaths."

"Of course, John," said Sherlock, standing up and pacing, his dressing gown slipping off his shoulders. "How do you put up with all this tedium? It's days like this I almost envy simple-minded people like you."

"...thanks."

"I mean," he continued, undeterred. "It's so easy for you lot to distract yourselves with inane television programmes about simpletons who don't know the paternity of their own illegitimate children but feel the need to share the news with the viewing public, or mundane video games where you pretend to shoot people in the face for hours at a time. Or social interaction, going through the same troublesome rituals night after night just in the hopes of copulating with a stranger, engaging in completely meaningless intercourse that will statistically end in disappointment for one or both parties for _no real reason_. I don't know how you all put up with it. No wonder suicide rates are so high."

John was trying his best not to openly laugh at the detective's little rant. "Only you can make going out on the pull sound that clinical. And I really don't expect you to ever understand the pluses of social interaction, since you can't stand other people."

"Well, of course I can't," said Sherlock, still pacing. "Other people are idiots, it's exasperating. You can't possibly expect me to go out and interact with them, I'll never be _that_ bored. And anyway, that's why I have you."

John finally looked up from the newspaper that he'd been unsuccessfully trying to read. "Excuse me?"

"As I'm sure you're fully aware," said Sherlock, stopping his pacing to watch John closely. "You are my best friend, possibly the best friend I've ever had. You're certainly the only person whose presence I can actually stand for more than a few minutes. And it's been noted on several occasions that out of the two of us, you are the 'normal' one, although I believe that's a far too mundane a description for you."

"Wow, that was almost a compliment," John muttered.

Sherlock continued regardless. "My point is that, being the 'normal' one, you know all about the protocols of social interaction. You know why _going out on the pull_, as you call it, is so appealing to the masses. I don't need to leave the flat and talk to other people in order to do this kind of research because I can just talk to you, John."

"So," John said slowly. "You want me to tell you why people like being with other people... for research... because you're bored?"

"Exactly."

"I'm not really sure what you're asking me, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned. "Surely it's _obvious_. Take you and Sarah, for example. She didn't seem particularly remarkable. Why did you enjoy her company?"

"Well, she... she was nice," said John awkwardly. "And she was smart, and fun, and pretty..."

"Oh, so it was all about sexual attraction," Sherlock interrupted.

"Not... not _entirely_," John spluttered. "I liked being with her."

"You like being with _me_."

"Not really the same thing, Sherlock."

"So this _is_ all about sexual attraction."

"No, Sherlock..."

"I should have known it would be something as primal as that. Basic human urges have so much to answer for."

John sighed again. "It's called _intimacy_, Sherlock. Being close to someone emotionally."

"You're close to _me_ emotionally."

"It's not the – oh, for goodness sake." John chucked his newspaper aside and started massaging his temples, feeling a headache coming on. Sherlock still watched him intently.

"I fail to see what the problem is," said Sherlock. "Other than the fact that you and I don't engage in sexual intercourse, our relationship doesn't seem that much different to what you had with Sarah."

"Of course it's different," said John, clearly getting annoyed. "You and I are _friends_. We don't... I don't know, go on dates or anything."

"A date constitutes as two people who like each other going out and having fun together," said Sherlock. "We do that all the time."

"We solve cases together, Sherlock. I know those are fun for you, but they're not dates."

"What about that time at Angelo's?"

"That was a stake-out, not a date!"

"You seem very defensive, John. Is this because since we moved in together you've been questioning your sexuality?"

John really spluttered then. He probably would have fallen over if he hadn't already been sitting down.

"How did you – I mean, what are you –"

"You've not exactly been subtle, John," Sherlock said with a shrug. "You're current stuttering and blushing notwithstanding, I've seen the way you look at me. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, all those obvious signs of arousal. And you get so overly defensive whenever someone makes any kind of reference to us being romantically involved with each other. If you were comfortable with your sexuality you wouldn't care. So you're either homophobic, which seems unlikely, intelligent and accepting man that you are. Or you've been questioning your sexuality for a while but are just unprepared to admit it yet – I'd say you're bisexual, since you've experienced romantic feelings for women in the past. Coming from an army background, you've obviously been forced to push it to the back of your mind, to think of it as a bad thing. But being around me, who you obviously find attractive, is just making you question yourself all over again."

John stared, completely dumbfounded, before he suddenly frowned. "This is your way of entertaining yourself, is it? Deducing me out of the closet? Outing me?"

"I haven't really outed you, John," said Sherlock. "We're the only two people in the room. If I had any desire to publically humiliate you I'd hack your blog and write it there."

"Well, why don't you? That'll definitely cure your boredom," John huffed and stood up, planning to make his way to his bedroom. Sherlock blocked his path, adding to John's overall frustration. This 'conversation' thing really wasn't going well at all.

"You're upset with me," he observed.

"Another brilliant deduction," John said scornfully. "Now get out of my way, Sherlock."

"I've crossed some sort of line, haven't I?" Sherlock asked with genuine caution. "Something I've said has made you unhappy with me. Whatever it was I did wrong, I apologise."

"You're apologising?" John said, almost laughing. "_You_ are actually apologising for hurting someone's feelings?"

"Not _someone's_ feelings, _yours_," said Sherlock as if it was obvious.

John didn't say anything, but he was actively trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze, very aware that the detective was reading him like a book.

"It's because I know you're attracted to me, isn't it?" Sherlock eventually said.

"Of course it is!" John burst, suddenly feeling furious at the whole world. "As difficult as it is for pretty much everyone we know to believe, I actually _like_ living with you, Sherlock. All this... this _dysfunction_... for some twisted reason I actually enjoy every minute of it and I didn't want to ruin it with my stupid feelings." He sighed again, but it was more a sigh of defeat. "I don't know why I even bothered trying to hide it from you. You, who can glance at someone for a second and tell them they're entire life story; it's pointless trying to hide anything from you. I just thought I could save myself the embarrassment."

"What embarrassment?" Sherlock asked, sounding unusually gentle. "I don't see what could be so embarrassing about this situation."

"Of course you don't," said John, glaring right at his flatmate's annoyingly handsome face. "We've already established that you don't understand this sort of thing. This sort of thing is right up there with the Solar System on the short list of Things the Great Sherlock Holmes Doesn't Understand."

Sherlock only had a lack of understanding for things that he didn't think of as important, so this instance troubled him. He stayed silent for a second, searching John's face for the understanding he craved, before he finally murmured "You think I've going to reject your advances and the subsequent uncomfortable exchange will ruin our friendship and... and you'll be alone again."

"Brilliant," John whispered, but not with the usual incredulous awe. This was bitter and tinged with pain. He tried to turn away and sit back down, but Sherlock held onto his arm.

"John, wait..."

"Let me go, Sherlock," he said, not angry but definitely exhausted.

Sherlock loosened his grip on John's arm but didn't let go. The army doctor looked at the floor, defeated and hating himself, wishing that the ground could just swallowing him up and he'd never have to look at Sherlock again. Smooth and surprisingly warm fingers under his chin forced him to look up, right into Sherlock's eyes. They seemed to be about three different colours all at once, so easy to get lost in. Sherlock – who prided himself in noticing everything – realised that he'd only now noticed just how very blue John's eyes were.

With no thought of the consequences, Sherlock lowered his head and caught John's lips in a kiss. Sherlock had never actually kissed anybody before, but he knew the theory – moving one's lips against another's, the friction of which pleasantly stimulates the nerve-endings. To be honest, he'd never really seen the point of it. But kissing John and actually having John kiss him back... if he'd known it would feel this good he would have done it _ages_ ago. John's lips felt remarkably soft and there was something very _moreish _about kissing him. Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands, John's own hands clinging desperately to the front of Sherlock's pyjama top. And then quite abruptly it was all over.

"No, no, I can't do this," John said quickly, putting as much space between himself and Sherlock as possible. "I can't – we can't – I don't want this."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "I thought this was exactly what you wanted, and you seemed to be enjoying it..."

"I mean, I don't want _this_," John said, anger flaring up again. "I know you, Sherlock. I know you do stupid things when you're bored. And I am not going to be one of those stupid things. I don't want to be another one of your bloody experiments, or a bit research into how the rest of us regular human beings behave. I want you to actually _want to_."

Sherlock only needed to take three strides to cross the room to where John stood. He cupped his flatmate's face in his pale, spidery hands once more and looked him right in the eye, serious and imploring.

"I _do_ want to, John. You know that I believe that caring about people is a pointless endeavour, a distraction from the work that does more harm than good. But, in spite of my better judgement, I care about you. _I care_. This isn't because I'm bored. This isn't an experiment. I know the emotional turmoil it would cause if I ever used you like that, John. And, contrary to popular belief, I'm not _completely_ heartless."

"So you... you actually," John said slowly, staring. "You... _want to?_"

Sherlock nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This 'conversation' thing was going even better than expected. "Of course I do, John. Isn't it obvious?"

Their second kiss was even better than the first. It was certainly more fevered and passionate. John, being the more experienced in such matters, took charge immediately, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck to pull the taller man closer while Sherlock placed his hands on John's back until their bodies were pressed together in an embrace. Fingers were tangled in his dark curls and there was a possibility that Sherlock may have moaned when John sucked on his bottom lip – he wasn't entirely sure but he honestly didn't care. He was far too busy losing himself. When the kiss became deeper and John's tongue was skilful exploring his mouth, a little voice in Sherlock's head informed him of just how unhygienic having another man's tongue in your mouth was. However it was completely drowned out by a much louder voice that was currently screaming and cheering about just how _wonderful_ this felt and how _perfect_ John tasted and how they really should have been doing this ages ago, the very moment they met, because this was _incredible_.

When they finally separated to catch their breath, Sherlock noted the look of pure lust of John's face – cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen from the kissing, pupils so dilated that only a small ring of the startling blue of his eyes was visible – and stored it in his memory, _never to be deleted_. He could feel his heart beating considerably faster than it had been moments ago, and a level of arousal stirring inside him that he couldn't recall ever feeling so strongly in his life.

"Bedroom?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Oh God, yes," John groaned.

"Yours or mine?"

"I really don't care."

Sherlock led the way to his room since it was the closest, the navigation through the piles of books and boxes in the way only made more difficult by the fact that they were hurriedly kissing and undressing each other at the same time. By the time they fell onto the bed Sherlock was completely naked, practically ripping off John's slacks and boxers so both men were in the same state of undress. Sherlock rolled them over so John was on top and wrapped his long legs around the doctor's waist, both of them moaning into each other's mouths as they heatedly kissed and their erections rubbed together. Sherlock found that there was something incredibly satisfying in having John's weight on top of him, that muscular body bearing down on his own, those calloused hands running all over his pale skin – it was _exhilarating_ and so very _moreish_.

John kissed his way down Sherlock's angular jaw to his slender neck, kissing, biting and sucking on the pale skin like he'd done countless times in his imagination. Sherlock ran his long fingers through John's sandy blonde hair, tilting his head back to give the doctor more skin to kiss. The low baritone moans he let out went straight to John's cock. Sherlock let his hands explore John's toned body, gently touching the scar on his shoulder before caressing his arms and the rippling muscles of his back. John's breath hitched when Sherlock's fingers brushed against his nipples and the detective stored that away for future reference – _John has sensitive nipples. Rubbing them causes him to make the most delicious noises._ _Pinch them and he'll cry out your name. _

"So how do you, mmm... how do you want to... to do this?" John asked, feeling the need to be courteous even though he was so turned on.

"I have lubricant in the drawer of my bedside cabinet," Sherlock replied, panting slightly. "We won't be needing condoms since you're clean and I'm a virgin. I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to be on the bottom. For some reason it just feels right."

"Oh... okay," said John, reaching for the drawer and fishing out the half full bottle. "Is there a reason you have lube in your drawer?"

"Of course there is," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and sitting up slightly. "Just because I've never had intercourse and have never had any real desire to up until now doesn't mean that I don't still regularly masturbate. I have to get it out of my system somehow or I'd be ruining my bed linen with wet dreams. Now are you going to continue asking me obvious questions, Dr. Watson, or are you going to fuck me?"

John tried to reply, but the image of Sherlock masturbating made him incapable of speech. Instead he popped open the bottle of lube and poured generous amount onto his fingers, rubbing them to warm them up. Sherlock spread his legs obediently, his breath catching in this throat when he felt the tip of John's finger teasing his hole, smearing it with lube before slowly pushing inside him, all the way to the knuckle. He hissed at the intrusion before he could stop himself, but John continued to push his finger in and out, kissing Sherlock's neck at the same time until the ring of muscles relaxed enough to add a second finger. It wasn't exactly painful, just... different. After the initial burn of the stretch, it was actually rather nice feeling so full, having John's nimble fingers scissoring and twisting and curling and –

"_Oh my God!"_

Sherlock's back arched off the bed and his whole body trembled. His cock was so hard that it was leaking copious amounts of pre-come all over his stomach. That felt _phenomenal_.

"I can... ohh... I can't only assume that was my... oh God... my prostate?"

"You assumed correctly," John chuckled, rubbing that magical spot inside Sherlock again. He added a third finger, revelling at how tight Sherlock felt and the heavenly sounds of pleasure he was making. This was even better than in his filthiest dreams. He easily could have pleasured Sherlock like this forever.

"Oh God... oh _fuck_, John, please..." Sherlock moaned, somewhere between an order and a desperate request. "Please, please fuck me... oh John, fuck me right this second!"

Sherlock whined in disappointment when John removed his fingers, clenching around nothing and feeling uncomfortably empty. He sat up slightly to watch as John slicked his erection up with more lube, his cock looking so enticingly long and thick, definitely above average. John positioned himself between Sherlock's legs, lining his cock up with the lubed up opening, and caught Sherlock's lips in a hard kiss as he pushed himself in. Sherlock whimpered against his lips but encouraged John not to stop until he was completely inside him. They stayed still for a second, just holding each other, Sherlock needing time to get used to being so wonderfully full, and John needing time to stop himself from just coming immediately.

Finally they started to move, John very slowly pulling almost all the way out and then steadily pushing back in. They kept up this gentle pace for a while, kissing sensually as they did, just _feeling_ each other, losing themselves. Sherlock hooked his legs around John's waist again, bringing them even closer together as they moved. Eventually their movements sped up, John burying his face in Sherlock's neck as he thrust into him faster. Sherlock kissed and nuzzled John's scarred shoulder as he moaned, deep and loud, all of it somehow too much and not enough all at the same time.

One perfectly angled thrust and Sherlock cried out, arching his back again in intense pleasure. He pushed against John, flipping them over so he was on top. Oh yes, this felt even better. John felt so _deep_ inside him, hitting that sweet spot with precision every time. He braced himself on John's toned chest as he moved up and down on his lap. John held so tightly onto Sherlock's slim hips that there would probably be bruises tomorrow, thrusting upwards until Sherlock was moaning loud enough for all of Baker Street to hear. John sat up so they could kiss, messy and fierce, as he wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock and stroked quickly.

They were moaning each other's names in between disjointed swear words and incoherent babble about just how good this felt. They flipped over so Sherlock was on his back again, John hooking one of the detective's long legs over his good shoulder and pounding into him so hard that the headboard banged loudly against the wall, scuffing the wallpaper. Sherlock clawed at John's back, panting against his mouth as he attempted to kiss him. With John filling him up and hitting his prostate every time and his calloused hand tugging on his cock, Sherlock was barely hanging on. He was so close, _so damn close_, that he probably couldn't tell you is own name if you paid him.

"Oh God, John... don't stop... more... oh _yes_, John... ahhhh... I'm so, so close... _don't stop!"_

"Sh-Sherlock... oh, so good... you feel _so good_... ohhh... come for me, Sherlock... come with me..."

Something snapped and suddenly Sherlock was screaming John's name, clinging onto the headboard with both hands as his orgasm finally overcame him, hot ropes of his come covering his abdomen and John's hand. John was only seconds behind, his climax hitting him like a ton of bricks, coming hard inside Sherlock and riding it out until they were both completely spent.

Sherlock was only vaguely aware of John pulling out of him, cleaning them both up with some tissues from the bedside cabinet and covering them with the duvet. He was far too busy trying to remember how to breathe and regain the use of his limbs to pay attention to what was happening. Every inch of his skin felt as if it was on fire, and everything was so overwhelming that he could feel tears – actual _tears_ – welling up in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Hey," John said gently, brushing his fingers over Sherlock's high cheekbone and kissing him on the corner of the mouth. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John's hand. "Better than okay."

He turned so that they were facing each other side by side, arms and legs wrapping around each other until they were a tangle of limbs. They kissed lazily, staring into each other's eyes as they came down from the high of what had just happened.

"So this is that intimacy thing you were talking about then?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yeah," John nodded.

"I suppose I can sort of see what the fuss is all about," Sherlock said with a little shrug.

John chuckled, curling his fingers around the hair on the nape of Sherlock's neck, and let out a sigh. This wasn't the usual sigh that Sherlock caused, but a how-on-earth-did-suddenly-get-so-lucky kind of sigh. It was certainly a sound that Sherlock wasn't going to be deleting from his mind palace – nothing about this was ever going to be deleted, especially the words that John said next.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled broadly at his flatmate... no, his _lover_. The tears that had overwhelmed him earlier were welling in his eyes once more. He'd been certain before he'd met John that no one would ever say those words to him and actually mean it.

"I know you do," he said. "I've never been in love before. But I know, theoretically speaking, what it's supposed to feel like, what it's meant to do to you. So, with that in mind, I think... I _know_ I love you too, John."

The couple close the gap between them with a kiss, both of them smiling into it, before they soon fell asleep in each other's arms. This whole 'conversation' thing had gone brilliantly.

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Hope you enjoyed my first ever bash at Johnlock, Humble Readers.  
Ideas for any more Johnlock smut I could possibly write in the future will be much appreciated.

xxx


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